


The Greedyhearts

by weatherfront



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-08
Updated: 2010-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherfront/pseuds/weatherfront
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a high-end thief. Arthur is a private investigator hired to catch him.</p><p>(<a href="http://tornadobelt.livejournal.com/466.html">Fics not posted on AO3 are still on LJ.</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greedyhearts

It's a Friday.

"Mail's here," says Detective Yusuf. He's holding a stack of envelopes in his right hand, and a hot dog in his left. Detective Ariadne follows behind in more or less an identical state, right down to the condiments on her hot dog. She's fitting in well.

They make their way down the winding maze of cubicles, dispensing letters and packages as they go, a bite of a hot dog with each step they take.

Arthur knows what's coming. It's a Friday. And just like he's done every Friday for the last two months, he grits his teeth and braces for the impact. His cubicle is at the far end of the room, but Ariadne and Yusuf are getting closer.

It isn't long now.

"A letter for Darling," says Ariadne. "Wait, Darling? We don't have anyone n--"

"Thank you," yells Arthur, as he leaps up and snatches the envelope from her hands.

"Detective Arthur?" asks Ariadne. "But your name isn't..."

"Ah, today is Friday," says Yusuf. "Really though, Arthur? You're already at _darling?_ Young passion must run its course, but wow, talk about taking it too fast."

"Shut up, Yusuf," says Arthur, tearing into the envelope.

"You're new," Yusuf says to Ariadne, "so let me explain something."

"Go away," says Arthur.

"Today is Friday," says Yusuf. "Every Friday and every Monday, the best thief we've ever had the misfortune to deal with sends Detective Arthur here an envelope."

"He's not the best," says Arthur. "He's just the luckiest."

"Inside the envelope," says Yusuf, "is a love letter."

"No, there isn't," shouts Arthur.

"Why is a thief sending Detective Arthur love letters?" asks Ariadne.

"Well, you know, he and Arthur are--" says Yusuf, and does something very obscene with his hands.

"No," says Arthur. "No, that's-- Ariadne, don't listen to this asshole, that's not-- that's not even remotely true."

"Deny it all you want," says Yusuf. "But they _are_ love letters. I know we've declared Eames the sworn enemy of this entire division, but I will not say a word against the strength and purity of his erection--"

" _Yusuf,_ " groans Arthur.

"His love," says Yusuf. "The strength and purity of his love."

 

 

 

It has been a little over two months since the first envelope. Every Monday and Friday for two months, Arthur has been receiving envelopes in the mail from the most atrocious high-end thief in modern history.

Eames.

Fucking _Eames._

Arthur -- freelance private investigator extraordinaire -- is currently in the service of the city police, Division of Burglary and Theft. It's two months ago, though it seems like forever, that they begin picking up rumors of a planned Sunday job on a private collection. _Police won't know what hit them,_ say the whispers. _This will be the work of a virtuoso. First in a series._

The police come to Arthur. He specializes in tracking down misplaced artwork, relocated jewels, anything and everything worth a handsome reward. He has an excellent track record. The collection in question is particularly tasteful, and the owner -- Saito, an energy mogul -- leaves all security to Arthur and flies off to Germany on a business trip.

"Are you serious?" demands Arthur. "You're just up and leaving when there's a theft threat against your property?"

"Mr. Arthur," says Saito, placing a warm hand on Arthur's shoulder, "sometimes a man must continue living his life in the face of danger. Perhaps you too will understand, when you have become a man."

Arthur puts all his soul into guarding Saito's collection. He really does. He tapes off the entire building, positions the whole division around the block, and personally stands watch inside the house.

At half past one, all the alarms go off at once.

"Shit," exclaims Arthur. His head is ringing. Over the thunderous, relentless din, he thinks he hears footsteps heading south. The window egress route. He dashes after the sound. Skidding across a carpet, jumping over a doorsill, he chases the shadow with his heart in his throat.

He hunts it down to the master bedroom, where a set of Venetian windows are thrown open and the night wind ripples through the curtains. There's someone on the balcony. Someone is slinging a leg over the railing. Arthur is about to pull his gun on the silhouette, but it turns and freezes, hanging halfway in midair-- and the clouds pass over the moon and the light streams across them.

White male, early thirties, well-built. He has a framed painting under one arm. With a rage that sets his hair on edge, Arthur realizes that it's a Bacon triptych. The thief has his grubby hands on a Bacon triptych. The situation is unacceptable.

But before Arthur can do anything about it, the thief grins. His smile is wide and bright, sharp as steel. There's stubble on his jaw. And then he _winks--_

\--and jumps.

"No," says Arthur. "No fucking way."

He rushes to the railing. There's no ledge below, only a good clean drop of eight stories onto asphalt. There's nowhere to hide, and no way to survive the fall. But there's no trace of the thief on the ground or otherwise, and gone with him is the Bacon triptych.

Arthur is speechless, bewildered, and absolutely furious. He broods at home for the rest of Sunday, and doesn't take any calls from the office. When he arrives at work on Monday, Yusuf hands him an envelope with _PRIVATE DETECTIVE ARTHUR_ scrawled across the back.

Inside is a hollowed-out poker chip with a piece of paper folded into it.

 _HELLO,_ it says. _DO YOU BELEIVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SITE?_

It's signed _EAMES_ , and since that's no one he knows, Arthur considers the whole thing some sort of elaborate office prank. He blames himself for screwing up his first chance at victory. All in all, really, he's glad. If it hadn't been for the hints that the thief had other jobs lined up, Arthur would be out of a job with nothing to show for it but a tarnished reputation. So he suffers the mocking with dignity and doesn't mention the note to anyone.

On Friday, Yusuf hands him an envelope addressed to a _DETECTIVE ARTHUR._

"Did you get a pen pal?" asks Yusuf. "Is this your way of dealing with grief?"

"Shut up," says Arthur. "I know where your cat lives."

"That is low," says Yusuf.

Inside is a hollowed-out poker chip with a piece of paper folded into it.

 _BE AT THE MUSEAM OF CONTEMPORRARY ART ON SUNDAY,_ it says. _ILL BE THERE AT 2 OCLOCK._

Arthur tries to crumple the envelope, but something inside won't give. He peers inside. It's a polaroid picture of the Bacon triptych, resting on what appears to be bright orange bedsheets.

 

 

 

At two in the morning on Monday, a beautiful Gorky is stolen from the Museum of Contemporary Art.

At ten in the morning on Monday, Yusuf drops an envelope off at Arthur's desk.

"Arthur," he says. "You look like hell."

"No, I don't," says Arthur.

"Your collar is lopsided," says Yusuf. "Did you even sleep?"

 _ARTHUR,_ reads the envelope. Inside is a polaroid picture of the Gorky on bright orange bedsheets, and a letter inside a poker chip that says, _LOVE THE TRENCHCOAT. REALLY SHOWS OFF YOUR FIGURE._

"Oh, you can't arrest Mr. Eames now," pleads Yusuf. "His spelling is getting so much better."

"This asshole is going down," says Arthur, and crushes the envelope in his fist because this time he remembers to take out the polaroid first.

Eventually Arthur comes to be silently thankful that he didn't think to put a timeframe on his threat. Again and again, he misses Eames right before his eyes. Always the helter-skelter of shoes on marble, just a couple footsteps ahead of him. Eames steals jewels, statuettes, more paintings. Arthur seethes and watches as Eames escapes, safe on a helicopter rope ladder with a Giacometti in his free hand.

"If I wasn't worried about the Giacometti," yells Arthur, "I'd just shoot you right now."

"I'll see you next week," Eames shouts back, and waves.

When he does see him the week after, Eames is diving into the backseat of his getaway car. Arthur yells into his transceiver, _He's in an Audi, block off the roads,_ but somehow Eames slips right through.

Before the car turns a corner, the sunroof slides open. Eames pops his head up into sight, grins, and blows Arthur a kiss.

Of course, then there is the time that Arthur has never spoken of to anyone. That's the week with the enormous blue diamond and the museum with a million passageways leading in and out of every room. That's the week when the sprinklers go off at a quarter after midnight, and Arthur splutters, unsure of what to do-- when suddenly someone _slaps his ass_ and when he whirls around, there is no one there.

"Eames," shouts Arthur, mouth filling with water, "not only am I going to arrest you, I am going to sue you."

 

 

 

At last even Sergeant Cobb runs out of faith. And Arthur knows Cobb is on his side, that Cobb was the one who got him hired in the first place, but even he can't justify Arthur's abysmal numbers.

"Eames is still on the loose," says Cobb. "Your clearance rate is zero, Arthur."

"I only have the one case," protests Arthur. "Once I get him, it'll be a hundred. Think of it that way."

"Your dedication is well noted," says Cobb, "and I know you're certainly capable enough. It's just that-- perhaps Eames isn't the right case for you. He's unorthodox. Catching him may require more-- well, require more imagination."

"I have plenty of imagination," says Arthur.

"Zero percent clearance rate," says Cobb.

Arthur's brain spins into overdrive, tiny cogs clicking into each other and whirring so fast they hum inside his head. No matter which way he looks at it, there's only one way out of the problem. Arthur feels a little sorry for Cobb, but that's what he gets for assuming that Arthur doesn't fight dirty when he needs to.

"Speaking of clearance rates," says Arthur, "how's the new division chief treating you?"

"Surprisingly great so far," admits Cobb. "He's not on my back about the rates. But he's a good man, you know? I don't want him to start worrying about clearance. You understand."

"Of course I do," says Arthur. "He really is a good man. And his daughter, Cobb. Have you seen his daughter? She was at the mixer last week in that plunging dress. She's a piece of work, all right."

Cobb swallows.

"Let me see if I remember her name," says Arthur. "Was it Mal? I think it was Mal. She's very pretty. It makes sense for her father to be so protective of her. Wouldn't want any wayward sergeants putting the moves on his beloved daughter, right? I wonder how he'd react if he was informed that someone managed to get past his watchful eye."

"Arthur," says Cobb, "you wouldn't."

"Dominic Cobb," says Arthur, leaning forward over Cobb's desk, "I so would."

Arthur keeps the case.

 

 

 

Sometime near the end of the first month, Arthur's Monday envelope contains the following missive.

 _ANOTHER WHOLE WEEK UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN,_ it says. _HERE'S SOMETHING TO HOLD YOU OVER. WWW.EAMESSTEALSTHINGS.COM_

Arthur isn't going to take the bait, he really isn't, but then when he comes back from a weak cup of coffee Yusuf has commandeered his chair, typing on his keyboard, using his browser to most definitely take that bait with gusto.

"He launched an official website," says Arthur. "That asshole launched-- I can't believe this."

"There's a 'statement of purpose' section," says Yusuf, and clicks.

 _STATEMENT OF PERPOSE,_ says the website in large orange letters. _MY NAME IS EAMES. YOUVE PROBABLY HEARD OF ME. IM POSSIBLY THE GREATEST THEIF WORKING TODAY, AND BETTER THEN MOST OF THE ONES NOT WORKING TODAY. I STEAL ART, I STEAL JEWELS, I STEAL ANYTHING YOULL PAY ME FOR._

"Even his website offends my eyes," says Arthur.

 _I CHARGE BY THE HOUR,_ it continues. _THIS INCLUDES TIME SPENT IN PLANNING. EQUIPTMENT AND COFFEE WILL BE CONSIDERED BUISNESS EXPENDITURS. MY CONTACT INFORMATION IS NOT FOUND ON THIS WEB SITE BECAUSE STEALING IS ILEGAL, BUT YOU PROBABLY KNOW HOW TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME IF YOU REALLY NEED TO. ENJOY THE REST OF MY WEB SITE!_

"What's on the rest of his website?" asks Arthur.

"There's a 'photographs' section," says Yusuf, and clicks.

The first picture that loads is of the Bacon triptych. Arthur grinds his teeth together. His first defeat still tastes sour. It's even worse this time because Eames' face is obscuring the middle panel, where he stands pointing at himself like he fucking knows he's got it, whatever it happens to be.

"I won't scroll down if you don't want me to," says Yusuf.

"Let's just get through it," says Arthur.

"All right," says Yusuf, "but do you mind not digging your fingers into my arm quite so much?"

Every single item is there. Eames is posing with every single one of them. His eyes are lazy with self-satisfaction, his grin like a cat with a face full of milk. Yusuf is trying to pry Arthur's fingers from his arm but Arthur can't seem to relax his muscles, and he's winding tighter and tigher, his peripheral vision flashing red with pounding blood.

After the catalogue of stolen items, the pictures quickly turn inexplicable. There is one where Eames is kneeling in a field of grass with the sun in his hair, petting a golden retriever by his side.

"What are these pictures even _for,_ " says Arthur.

There is also one where Eames is slouching against the hood of a battered old Jeep, tattoos like arcane secrets trailing down the curves of his biceps.

"I don't understand," says Arthur. "Is it an ad campaign? Is it a photoshoot for some kind of fugitive fashion magazine?"

Then comes the series where the pictures are grainy like they've been snapped on a phone, and Eames is stretching a hand high to angle the shot, and he's shirtless and his pants are slung extremely low on his hips and there's an incline of hard lines and hair disappearing into the front of his waistband.

" _Close it,_ " yells Arthur. " _Close the browser._ "

" _Oh my god,_ " yells Yusuf. " _Calm down, Arthur._ "

 

 

 

Anyway, it's been two months, and it's a Friday. Detective Ariadne is asking, _How do they even find the time to sleep with each other,_ and Yusuf is saying, _That's the funny thing about erections, they always find a way._

The note inside the poker chip says, _IT'S A DATE AT THE GEMSTONE EXIBITION. LETS MAKE IT SOMETHING SPECIAL. 1 AM DONT BE LATE._

The gemstone exhibition in question is an annual event held to celebrate the art of setting, and being what it is, it fills the entire wing of a museum with enough precious stones to cause a war. Arthur is annoyed that Eames won't just tell him which item he plans on stealing, if he's going to tell him the time and place to begin with.

But Arthur combs through the exhibition on Saturday morning, and knows this is perhaps the last chance he has. He needs to make a choice. He can't close in on Eames without narrowing down the list of possible targets to a single item; Eames is too talented to trip over something like diffuse security.

 _It's time I took a chance_ , thinks Arthur.

He settles on a brooch of gigantic pearls and rubies, unapologetically flashy and much too large to be practical and somehow so very Eames that he is almost confident in the gamble. Arthur doesn't know what makes him feel like he knows Eames; they've never talked at once for more than a couple seconds each, and most of the things that Arthur has said consisted of threats and invectives.

All of the things that Eames has said consisted of promises and endearments. An odd sensation creeps over Arthur, like something has been jarred and come loose in himself, but he chalks it up to excitement.

He'll show Eames imagination. He has it planned out; mirrors that take the place of open corridors, mirrors that slide down from the ceiling to the floor and block the division between rooms. People being chased turn sharp corners, and Eames won't realize that the exits are closed off until it's too late. It's unusual enough to throw him off balance, and that split second of confusion will be all that Arthur needs.

Arthur is going to win.

 

 

 

The alarms go off at one o'clock sharp. The museum is arranged in what is more or less a grid, and as soon as the alarms sound, the eight rooms surrounding the brooch become cul-de-sacs.

There are footsteps running across the floor--

\--those infernal footsteps, echoing in every bone of his body--

\--leading him closer and closer, and Arthur is on the hunt.

Arthur is playing to win.

Eames is in the third room he sprints into. Eames is scrambling up from the floor, brooch clutched in one hand, about to throw himself at the mirror cutting him off from his exit.

"Freeze," says Arthur, pulling out his gun. "Turn around."

Eames does. Slowly his hands rise to either side of his head.

Arthur flips the safety, keeping the gun trained on Eames. God, the exhilaration is sweet, and he's breathless with adrenaline. The lights are white-hot and sparks are dancing across the walls.

"You," wheezes Arthur.

"Hello, Arthur," says Eames, like he isn't cornered in a room full of mirrors, like he isn't staring down the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead.

"It's about fucking time," says Arthur, "you asshole."

"When I told you we should make today something special," says Eames, "I don't think this is what I meant."

"Shut it," says Arthur.

"Charcoal's a good color on you," says Eames, nodding at Arthur's suit. "It brings out your eyes."

"Seriously," says Arthur, "be quiet while I send you where you belong, jailbird."

He fumbles behind himself for the handcuffs, his fingers numb with agitation. As his heart begins to pound a little slower and his head clears into lucid thought, he realizes that Eames really isn't saying anything. All he's doing is watching Arthur. There's a tiny smile around the corners of his lips, and even though his mouth is crooking up, it doesn't look anything like happiness.

"Jesus, do something," says Arthur, his chest flooding with incomprehensible panic. "Don't just stand there! Try to run, come on-- wrestle my gun out of my hands, do something! Goddammit, why are you just standing there?"

"I was just thinking," says Eames, "that this is how it's going to end."

Arthur's knuckles go pale around the butt of the gun.

"It made me sad, pet," says Eames. "That's all."

 _This is how it's going to end,_ thinks Arthur.

And for some reason he can't picture the congratulations, the hundred-percent clearance rate, the hefty check and the booming business. All he sees is the endless Friday line of tail lights down the highway going home. He thinks of cleaning his house like he used to do every Saturday, dusting all the crevices, vacuuming under the rug, scrubbing everything clean until each surface gleams spotless, just so that he can collapse onto his bed at night and sleep until the morning.

He thinks of bleach and unscented wipes. He thinks of Sundays spent on the couch, all his windows thrown open in hopes of catching a breeze, and he thinks of waiting, waiting, waiting for Monday, waiting until someone wants something found for them, waiting until he knows what to do next, waiting until he knows who he is.

He thinks of a 404 error in place of that stupid orange website with its stupid grainy pictures, and he thinks of the heap of hollowed-out poker chips stacked in a basket on his kitchen table.

There's a faint commotion in the distance. It's the sound of backup arriving.

And god help him, because Eames doesn't do a single fucking thing, just stands there with his hands up and smiles like he's let go. God help him, because he knows he shouldn't, but all he can think of is the misery of what people call self-sufficiency.

"Take off your shirt," says Arthur.

"Arthur," says Eames, "now is really not the time--"

"Hurry, that's backup coming," says Arthur. "I don't want to ruin mine, it's expensive."

Arthur rams his gun back into his holster, and Eames' eyes flicker to life. He sheds his jacket and makes quick work of his buttons, and he pulls the shirt off of himself as the fabric stretches against his skin, undershirt tight across his chest. Eames looks broad and solid and he feels warm even from several feet away, the heat radiating off him when Arthur reaches out a hand to take the shirt.

"I could disrobe further, if you like," says Eames.

He's smirking, insolent and inviting like he's always been, and Arthur can't stop to think about why that comforts him because the crowd is drawing near. Arthur wraps the shirt around his fist, and takes a deep breath. It's going to hurt, but he can't risk being found with shards of glass all over his hair, and they'd count the rounds left in his service weapon.

Fist it is, then.

Arthur puts all of his weight into the punch, and the mirror shudders and cracks in spiderweb ripples, crashing to the floor when he pulls out his fist. The dull ache in his hand explodes, shooting up his arm, but right now he doesn't have the luxury of pain.

"Go," he hisses at Eames, "before I change my mind."

Eames' smirk gets just a little bigger, and that's more like it. That's the Eames worth hating.

It must be some sort of sickness, because Arthur finds himself grinning back.

Gingerly, Eames lifts Arthur's fist, brushing off flecks of glass from the fabric, covering Arthur's hand with his own. Arthur's breath catches in his throat; Eames leans in, his lips brushing against the edge of Arthur's ear.

"You know," whispers Eames, "you could have kicked it down instead."

And he grabs a corner of the tattered shirt and runs, the glass crunching under his feet, the shirt unwinding behind him, trailing like a ribbon. Arthur looks down at his hand, where his flesh is raw and smudged with blood.

 _It doesn't hurt anymore, though,_ he thinks.

 

 

 

Monday morning, the envelope -- sent to _ARTHUR, DARLING_ \-- is bulging with a box.

"Tell me," says Ariadne, "is it the chocolate of love?"

"Yusuf is a terrible influence on you," says Arthur. "Go away or I won't share any."

But instead, it's a carton of band-aids. Tiny ones for children, with Disney princesses all over them. Arthur chuckles in spite of himself, and pries the note out from inside the poker chip.

 _HOPE YOUR HAND IS HEALING ALL RIGHT,_ it says. _FOUND YOUR BLOOD ON THE REMAINS OF MY SHIRT. I RELIZE THIS NEXT PART MAY SOUND A BIT DODGY BUT I WANTED YOU TO KNOW: I TOSSED OFF INTO IT ALL NIGHT LONG._

Arthur frowns.

"Yusuf," he calls. "What does it mean-- to toss off?"

"What?" asks Yusuf. "Who's talking to you about tossing off?"

"No one," says Arthur.

"Well, you know, it's," says Yusuf, and does something very obscene with his hands.

"Oh, god," mutters Arthur, as all the blood in his body rushes to his face. Of course only Eames would think to combine well-wishing, Disney princesses, and masturbation into a single package, then wrap it up in poor spelling and hurl it at a detective sworn to arrest him. Of course.

"Look, Arthur," says Ariadne from her cubicle. "Eames updated his website."

She points to the menu where there's a section titled CURRENT MARK.

"Is this a public version of those advance notices he's been sending you every Friday?" she asks.

"What would be the point in that?" wonders Arthur. "Try clicking."

She does. In gigantic orange font, larger than the main menu, it says _CURRENT MARK: THE HEART OF ONE DETECTIVE ARTHUR._

"No," groans Arthur. "No, please, no."

Just when he thinks it can't possibly get any worse, Ariadne scrolls down and a picture pops up on the page. It's hazy like it's been taken zoomed in through several windows. It's _him,_ it's Arthur, in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, eyes fixed on something outside the frame and reaching up to towel off his hair.

Arthur just gapes.

"Wow," says Ariadne, "you've been working out."

 _EVERYONE,_ it says below the picture, _THIS DELISHIOUS CUPCAKE IS MINE, THANK YOU._

"It is not," yells Arthur. "It is so totally not yours!"

When he comes into the office on Tuesday, Arthur's cubicle has been completely vandalized. Pictures of Eames from his official website have been printed and thumbtacked all over his walls, and interspersed are speech bubbles made of post-it notes.

 _DETECTIVE ARTHUR PLEASE BE MY BRIDE,_ says one.

 _THAT DETECTIVE ARTHUR,_ says another, _WHAT A DELISHIOUS DREAMBOTE._

Inevitably, one of the grainy phone camera pictures has a cartoon penis drawn in black marker over Eames' crotch. Arthur makes it a point to rip that one down first.

 

 

 

Friday's note is addressed, simply, to _LOVE._ Yusuf does a double take as he hands it to Arthur, and Ariadne rolls her eyes.

"It's a British thing," mumbles Arthur.

"No, it's an Eames thing," says Yusuf. "It's an Eames thing for _you._ It's a throbbing, aching, painfully hard Eames thing f--"

"Why do you have this unhealthy obsession with erections?" asks Arthur, and retreats to a corner for peace.

"Every man has an unhealthy obsession with erections," Yusuf calls after him.

 _IS YOUR HAND WELL ENUGH TO SHOOT WITH?_ says the letter. _THERE'S A TOURING MODILIANI COLLECTION IN TOWN. WE SHOULD GO SEE IT TOGETHER. 1AM._

The absurdity of it all suddenly strikes Arthur, and he starts laughing. He's been seeing an obnoxious criminal every weekend for over two months now, an unscrupulous bastard with a mouth he could stare at for days, who can steal the best from the best and still manage to misspell his way through life. And no matter what private weakness may have previously led Arthur to clemency, this Sunday, their showdown is to the death.

 _Wait,_ thinks Arthur, _with a mouth what?_

 

 

 

When he hears that the Modigliani exhibit is scheduled to be displayed in Saito's mansion, Arthur is apprehensive. After all, it's his fault that Saito had his Bacon lifted. But surprisingly enough, Saito personally requests that Arthur arrange the security around the Modigliani event.

"You're the best at what you do," says Saito, "and you're trying the hardest to do what you do. If anything, your previous experience should spur you on to achieve a different result this time."

"Saito," says Arthur, "you are the most impressive human being I know."

This time, he places snipers inside nearby buildings, aiming at every open window of Saito's house. There are ground units waiting on the first floor, and an air unit that hovers overhead. Everything and everyone is set, including Arthur. He rests a hand on his pistol and listens for footsteps.

This time, there are none. Arthur has his back to the balcony window, and when the curtains billow out, he first thinks it's the silk before he realizes there are arms around his shoulders.

"This house brings back memories," says Eames, hot against his neck.

"Forget them," says Arthur. "I know I'm trying."

He slides his hand down to his holster, but Eames is there first, lacing their fingers together.

"There's no rush," says Eames. "It's not one yet."

"You're here early," says Arthur. "What do we do while we wait?"

"Don't even ask," says Eames, and his lips trail up Arthur's jaw, a slight rasp of stubble as they slide across skin.

Arthur twists his head away and slips out of the loose embrace.

"There's no rush," he says. "Besides, I don't date outlaws."

"You might change your mind," says Eames. "How's your war wound, darling?"

They're still linked by their fingers, and Eames raises Arthur's hand up like he's going to kiss it. The pads of his thumbs are rough, and they pass over every last bit of the back of Arthur's hand like they need to know it from memory. All the cuts are closed, and only the deeper ones have plain band-aids over them.

"Were the princesses too much for you?" asks Eames, and in the dark he sounds amused.

Arthur is about to answer, but then it catches his eye; a subtle shift in the corner of his vision, the shadow of a person in the building across from the balcony. Eames is blind to all else but the contours of his hand, but Arthur sees the sniper tense, and there's something about the movement that says--

\--he's going to shoot.

And in that moment, Arthur realizes that he can't do it.

He just can't do it.

" _Get down,_ " he shouts, and hurls himself at Eames. A window shatters across the street, and in an instant it feels like his shoulder bursts into fire, the impact knocking him off his feet-- and he hits the floor as his breath rushes out of him, and it hurts, nothing like a cut-up hand, the agony eating away at him and twisting his insides, and dimly he can hear Eames yelling something and turning him over, but the words don't make any sense and _everything hurts._

It's so bad that he forgets where he is, forgets what has happened, but a single clear thought cuts in through the churning fog.

 _This is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever done,_ he thinks.

And he lets his head fall back.

 

 

 

Edith Piaf is warbling from somewhere far away. _J'irais décrocher la lune, j'irais voler la fortune, si tu me le demandais._ There's a soft whistle beneath her voice, and a smell of lavender. He is lying on what feels very much like clouds.

Naturally, Arthur assumes that he has died and gone to heaven.

But when he cracks an eye open, he sees Eames sitting on the other side of the room, his feet up on a desk.

"Not heaven, then," says Arthur.

"No," says Eames. "Still alive."

"Oh," says Arthur, and closes his eyes again. "Good."

The chair creaks, and footsteps pad across the floor. Eames' hands are warm as they ghost across Arthur's skin, and it's through the whisper of fabric and flesh that Arthur pieces things together. He's on a bed -- Eames' bed, presumably orange -- and his shoulder has been wrapped tight with bandages, passing under his arm and across his chest. No shirt, but Arthur feels that this isn't the right moment to be flustered.

"You'll be all right," says Eames. "There's the bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but nothing bedrest won't fix."

"You should take the kettle off," says Arthur.

"Welcome to my humble abode," says Eames.

Arthur tries to sit up when Eames brings the tea, but his shoulder is bad on one side and his ribs are bad on the other. So he lets Eames prop him up against the pillows, handling him slowly like he has fragile stickers all over him. That angers him.

"I'm not an invalid," says Arthur. "In case you forgot, I got shot trying to save your sorry ass."

"That still makes you an invalid," says Eames. "Just a very stupid one."

"I know," says Arthur. "I remember thinking that."

"And a very brave one," says Eames. "It's Monday. Shall we converse, or would we prefer that we wrote a note instead?"

Arthur tests the tea with his tongue and looks around the room. There's only one, excluding the nook of a bathroom off to one side, which is a disconcertingly humble abode indeed for a jewel and fine art thief. None of what he stole is anywhere in the room.

 _Of course,_ thinks Arthur, bitterly. _Must have sold them off to his clients._

"Evidently you prefer the notes," says Eames.

"I don't even know what those are for," says Arthur. "Do you have a code of honor or something? Do you prefer a challenge? What's the point of telling me to show up, if you're going to run away?"

"It's nothing like that," says Eames. "If there's something to be done, I'd rather get it done with as little effort as possible."

"Then why," asks Arthur.

"If I didn't send the notes," says Eames, "how would you know where to wait for me?"

"What!" yells Arthur. "I don't-- I don't wait for you! I mean, I wait for you, but only so that I can arrest you!"

"Really," says Eames, archly.

"Don't flatter yourself," says Arthur. He crosses his arms.

"I've got a question for you, then," says Eames. "Why did you let me go, that time with the brooch and the mirrors? And why did you take the bullet for me?"

"Those are two questions," says Arthur.

"It's a two-parter," says Eames. "Actually, it has multiple parts, because those aren't the only two times you've let me go."

"You're just luckier than you think," says Arthur. "That's all."

"You never checked where the updates to my website were coming from," says Eames. "You never traced my envelopes. You never sent any lines out looking for the whereabouts of the stolen items."

Arthur sets his jaw.

"I don't think you ever really wanted to catch me," says Eames. "Why is that?"

 _Why,_ Arthur asks himself, because there's truth in that. Eames is a very good thief, but no one is good enough -- or lucky enough -- to get away with almost a dozen jobs, week after week, with no variance in method. And Arthur did know Eames well enough to pinpoint the brooch he would target. Eames was right. Arthur had let him go.

Arthur remembers the dread of a weekend spent at home, nothing to do and nowhere to be. But that wasn't all of it. It wasn't all about his restlessness. He'd thought of Eames, in front of that mirror -- the lost website, the abandoned poker chips -- and he hadn't wanted that to end, either.

 _Just one last time,_ he had thought, _I want to see him again--_

Arthur's eyes go wide as it dawns on him.

"Oh, shit," he says, and brings a hand up to his mouth, because he's either going to scream or vomit.

"More tea?" asks Eames.

"No, just-- leave me alone," mutters Arthur, "my world is crumbling right now."

He darts a glance up at Eames, and to his horror, notices that Eames is smirking. Eames _knew._ Eames had known long before Arthur did.

"You," begins Arthur, pointing a finger in Eames' smug face.

"And thus it comes to him," says Eames.

"I don't believe this," says Arthur.

"You started to root for me," says Eames, "and then you started to fall in love with me."

"Shut up," yells Arthur, "oh god, please _shut up._ I work for the police! I help wronged citizens! I don't root for criminals-- or fall-- fall in-- _fall in love with them--_ "

"The thing is, Arthur," says Eames, "you're an outlaw. You've just forgotten how to be one."

He takes the teacup from Arthur's hand and sets it down on the floor, and straddles him on the bed. There is a hideously orange blanket, two pairs of pants, and presumably two pairs of underwear between them, and still Arthur backs up all the way to the headboard.

"Just because you button all of your buttons up," says Eames, "doesn't mean you're meant to live in a cage. You might get annoyed at bad spelling, but you're an outlaw, Arthur. You don't belong in this life."

Eames is much too close, Eames-- who has been not much more than footsteps to Arthur for as long as he has known him. Suddenly they're pushed together, two to a bed, and Arthur doesn't know what to do now that they aren't hiding from each other.

And he thinks of grey felt cubicle walls, the swipe of his ID as he checks in every morning. He's brought back by the heat of Eames' hand curling around his cheek.

"I've been thinking of expanding my operation," says Eames. "I'm looking for a point man."

Arthur swallows away the lump in his throat.

"The box of band-aids you sent me," he says. "I left it in my office drawer."

"We'll get you another," says Eames.

 

 

 

It's a couple Fridays before the Division of Burglary and Theft receives an envelope in the mail. It's sent to _Det. Yusuf and Det. Ariadne._ Inside is a hollowed-out red acetate die, a key, a polaroid picture, and the usual poker chip.

 _I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye,_ says the note folded into the die. _It all happened a bit fast. I did try to do one last good thing for you-- go to First Unity Bank and ask for vault 528. This is the key. Inside will be everything Eames has stolen so far, with the exception of the Bacon triptych. None of the other items were commissioned for theft by clients, and should now be returned to the original owners. Tell Saito that I apologize for the Bacon and that I will attempt to procure it for him as quickly as possible._

_Eames and I are overseas and plan to remain so in the foreseeable future, which I find preferable, since I have no intention of stealing from your jurisdiction. I probably won't ever be coming back, though I might reconsider that if Cobb gets married to the division chief's daughter. Don't look for me when that happens. You won't see me._

_I hope this finds you well._

_Arthur._

The polaroid is of the thousand lights and high beams of Charles de Gaulle, curving like mountains, like flight.

There's only a short fortune-cookie strip of paper in the poker chip.

[ _WWW.ARTHURANDEAMESSTEALTHINGS.COM,_](https://web.archive.org/web/20110210141428/http://arthurandeamesstealthings.com) it says.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Greedyhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499949) by [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory)




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